


open you up and find what’s real

by grim_lupine



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Angry Sex, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t you ever get tired of being the voice of reason?” Tyler asks you one day, mouth curved slyly, as you wipe the blood from his cheek where it looks like someone cut him with their ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	open you up and find what’s real

-

\--

Tyler is the wild one, the bright shooting star one, the impulsive reckless perpetually smirking one; he leaps and never looks, he goes through life all swagger and vivacity (you love him for it, hate him, envy him, it’s all the same).

You are the one who holds back, cautious ( _scared?_ Tyler asks in your memory a hundred different times, sneering, so close you could hit him, or push him, or—); you are the thinker, the contingency planner, you don’t know the rush of wind under your feet as you jump without a surefire net beneath. You are one half of a whole, and time and routine have molded you into this specific role—Tyler wants something, you make plans for it, and you give in, every time.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being the voice of reason?” Tyler asks you one day, mouth curved slyly, as you wipe the blood from his cheek where it looks like someone cut him with their ring. Tyler gets restless sometimes, itching under his skin. You know the signs like you know your own name, and it ends like this, him picking a fight somewhere and coming back to you smelling like alcohol and smoke and blood, you fixing him up with careful hands while he taunts you in that affectionately cruel way he has.

(If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that you know the signs of Tyler’s impending late-night brawls because you feel them yourself; the desire to break something, break expectations, just _break_. Only you will not, _cannot_ afford yourself that luxury—because Tyler stole it first, and you are stuck in this 180-degrees slot, opposite in every way to keep the balance.)

“Someone has to do it,” you say flatly, and wonder how hard someone had to hit your brother to get the underside of his jaw to turn that color. You wonder how hard _you_ would have to hit to do it yourself.

Tyler watches you silently for a moment, eyes glittering with knowing amusement, before he grabs your wrist with unforgiving fingers and presses your own hand to your cheek. You can feel his blood leaving sticky fingerprints on your skin. The smell of it is sharp, metallic. Dizzying.

“No, they _don’t_ ,” he says softly. “I don’t need a conscience, I don’t need a voice-of-reason. I don’t need someone to clean the blood off me. I need you to be what I _know_ is inside you. I need you bleeding right next to me, Cameron.”

And his fingers are still around your wrist, his words snaking insidiously inside your mind and wrapping around the part of you you refuse to let out, and you—

You close your lips, swallow back the words _show me how_ , and step back. “Go wash your face,” you tell him, and there’s no hiding the rawness of your voice.

Tyler’s silent compliance is more triumphant than his words could ever be.

You stare down at your hands and try not to think about hitting him.

You try not to think about how he’d let you.

*

Slow to anger. That’s what everyone says about you, or variations of it. Cameron’s the levelheaded one, reliable Cameron, Cameron knows how to keep calm.

Not like that brother of his.

Tyler takes to provoking you after that, little verbal flicks like the deliberate scoring of a knife over your skin: he hisses “ _Coward_ ,” in your ear in the morning, when he crowds up behind you so closely that you can feel him breathing but you don’t turn around; he wanders around in a pair of your sweatpants and no shirt, dares you wordlessly to say something (you look him in the eyes and never let your own dip down); he brings girls and guys back to your place and fucks them where he knows you can hear, every _good, you like it?_ and _fucking—suck me off, just like that_ and _let me hear you_ meant for your ears and your ears entirely. Always, he looks at you knowingly, like he’s laughing at you on the inside, like he’s waiting with no impatience because he knows it’s only a matter of time before you give in (it is, _fuck_ him).

You’re slow to anger, but when you _do_ —

There’s a girl who catches your eye one night, who looks like she likes you in return—before Tyler steals her from right under your fucking nose, charming his way into kissing her right there at the bar with his eyes wide open and fixed on you, standing there helpless to do anything but watch.

(He looks exactly like you, but you know how much brighter he shines; no wonder she picked him, and there’s something burning slowly inside of you now, an all-over flush of heat coloring your cheeks and lighting you all the way down your body. You _want_. This time he’ll be the one to give in. You’ll make sure of it.)

Tyler has one hand cupping her jaw, the other at her lower back, tipping her up on her toes and practically off the ground; he kisses her slow and endless, and you can see him suck at her mouth, draw little panting noises out of her, and his eyes don’t leave you for one second.

 _What the fuck are you going to do about it, Cameron?_ they say, all hard and amused and so unexpectedly _angry_ , like maybe he’s tired of waiting for you and intends on doing something about it.

You stand, push the chair away from you. The sound is grating and startling to your own ears. Tyler’s eyes narrow, get darker.

You walk over to him, unsure if you’re going to go through with it until you hear yourself say smoothly, “I’m sorry about this, but I need to borrow my brother. Urgent family business.”

You don’t give the girl any chance to say anything, just fist your hand in Tyler’s jacket and pull him in your direction. He follows you out of the bar without complaint, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way; you’d have dragged him out with or without his compliance.

Tyler’s laughing silently, teeth bared in a sharp grin. “Urgent family business? Cameron, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

You turn and push him against the wall with all the considerable force at your disposal. “Now that’s a lie,” you say quietly, and he’s still laughing, so fucking _infuriating_ you want to smack the sound right out of his lungs.

“That’s right,” he says, satisfied, wordless dare written all over his face. “I knew it all along.”

*

You’re barely two steps into your room before you’re shoving Tyler against the door, and you’re thinking about him taunting you, thinking about his relentless goads, thinking about him kissing that girl he took from you and making sure you were watching every minute of it, and you don’t know what you’re about to do until you’ve done it—hit him across the face with a sharp sound that slices the air, drives the breath from you, pulls a wet, stunned gasp from his swollen mouth.

Tyler’s only off balance for a second before he tongues the corner of his mouth where it’s bleeding a little, a slow pink lick that’s all tease; he smirks and says, “You hit me worse when we were _six_ ,” and then he’s shoving back, giving as good as he gets, and you’re torn between wanting to bruise him and wanting to rip all the clothes right off him.

Overachiever that you are, you try for both.

“You don’t ever fucking _shut up_ ,” you hiss in his ear, pulling his shirt open with one forceful tug and scattering the buttons across the floor, and Tyler’s answering, “Then _do_ something about it,” still sounds like he’s laughing at you all the while, and the fury that rose in you so slowly but grew to such staggering heights is threatening to burn you up from the inside out. You won’t mind as long as you get to take him with you.

This is the wildest you’ve ever let yourself get, the most frightening insane reckless violent thing you’ve ever done, and you’ve never felt more at home, more settled in your skin. Tyler was right, damn him. He was _right_.

“Get on your knees,” you tell him, and when he doesn’t move, just lifts an eyebrow, you shove him down anyway. He hits the ground gracefully, lets you shove your cock in his mouth, yank on his hair, swear at him, so fucking _malleable_ but anything but, because you know his obedience is only to remind you that he can afford to let you do what you want, because he’s _won_. He’s pulled you out of your carefully constructed skin and shown you that underneath, you’re exactly the same as him.

When you pull Tyler’s hair harder he sucks you in deeper; when you grip the back of his neck so tight you know it’s going to bruise, he just groans around you, half-theater for your benefit and half- real reaction. You push your thumb against the cut at the corner of his mouth, the mark from where _you_ hurt him, and you think about him letting someone else put their hands on him like this—someone else fucking his mouth, someone else making him bleed, and it makes you so fucking _crazy_ —

“Did you like it?” you ask him, and you barely recognize the rough sound of your own voice. “When I hit you, Ty, did you fucking _like_ it?”

He looks up at you with his hungry, laughing eyes; swallows around your cock, reaches up and pushes your thumb harder into the corner of his mouth like he _needs_ it, and you hadn’t realized you were that close, but it shocks you into coming down his throat so hard your knees threaten to buckle.

Tyler swallows easily, and takes advantage of your momentary weakness to get to his feet and push you back against the wall. You stumble a little, still unsteady, but his hold on you is sure. “I liked it about as much as you did,” he says slyly, and you shut him up by kissing him hard and jerking him off as slowly as you can get away with, before he bites your lip savagely in an unspoken _Get on with it._

You taste a little blood in your mouth, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or from him. Tyler shudders in your hold, and it’s a heady power. You don’t kiss him nicely, sweetly; you let yourself be anything but the gentlemanly exterior you’ve been holding onto, and he comes all over your hand anyway, gasping like it’s all he’s been waiting for.

Tyler’s catching his breath, quick inhales with his forehead pressed against your shoulder, and you feel the moment his breathing changes into helpless laughter. “Took you fucking long enough,” he breathes out, and he’s all thorough self-satisfaction; you could hate him for a moment—Tyler, who can never leave well enough alone, who always has to _push_. But in the end you can’t.

You let your head _thunk_ back against the wall and wait to see what happens next.

\--

-


End file.
